


Birds of No Feather

by jimkerk



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Domesticity, First Kiss, Fluff, Human AU, Idiots in Love, M/M, and so are these bois, i'm SOFT
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 18:33:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19751425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jimkerk/pseuds/jimkerk
Summary: Instead of killing them, Heaven and Hell decide to punish Aziraphale and Crowley with mortality, since they love humanity so much, and since it amounts to pretty much the same thing anyway.Two idiots share their first kiss and work out how life will be different now.





	Birds of No Feather

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Cas for sharing/encouraging my obsession with Good Omens, and for fuelling whatever This is.

“Principality Aziraphale of the Eastern Gate, Demon Crowley, we hereby sentence you to… mortality.” 

Gabriel and Beelzebub, despite their differences, pronounced the sentence as one. Hell had frozen over, and Heaven had burst aflame to ring out with one hideous, horrifying disharmony. And it signified the end. Not the End of All Things — they had successfully staved that off for another few millennia. But the end of This, whatever it was that they had. And the unknown, really, was the one thing they had been trying to avoid. 

Aziraphale and Crowley exchanged a brief glance that said more than they could ever hope to express with words, and more than all the combined rulers of Heaven and Hell could ever hope to understand.

“You won’t be needing your powers, of course,” Gabriel smiled and snapped his fingers. At his command, Sandalphon placed his hands firmly on Aziraphale’s shoulders, forcing him to kneel. Dagon put one hand on Crowley’s back and kicked the back of his knees so that he crumpled to the floor. 

Stepping forward, Beelzebub assumed the Tory Power Stance*, and proceeded to inhale with enough force to suck out their divinity and demonity**. It was slow at first, a slight tingle that started in the heart area and spread out to the limbs, increasing in intensity as it did so. And it didn’t stop, it just kept growing and spreading, it seemed to spread past the confines of the body and it turned into discomfort, then soreness, then pain, then agony. Before this, they had always been able to miracle away any issues they had encountered; Crowley had quickly cast a soothing spell on his feet after the bombing in the church. This pain, however, this was an inescapable burning, as though an inner layer of themselves was being torn out through every pore in their skin. Crowley let out a cry of anguish. But what was worse, worse than this torture, worse even than the smug, self-satisfied smirks of the whole Host of Heaven and Hell, was the tiny shrill whimper that he could hear Aziraphale trying to stifle, and knowing he could do nothing to help, his hands bound as they were behind his back, his body writhing against Dagon’s grip. Eventually, unconsciousness got the better of him.

(*This dimly registered in Crowley’s mind as something of an offence, since it was him who had invented the position in the first place.

**Yes, I made this word up. No, I don’t take criticism. All language is made up anyway.)

* * *

Crowley woke up in his apartment. Groggy, disoriented, he cast his eyes around the room. Everything was more or less as he remembered it to be, but the memory of before was dimmer than he expected. He sat up and realised that his back was sore, so he wished the pain away. Only it didn’t go. And he remembered. Clambering to his feet, he patted himself down. He could feel everything so intensely, and it wasn’t all pleasant. Not pleasant at all. Why had he chosen concrete?

He supposed it was nice of them not to cast him out onto the street as well as out of Hell. It didn’t feel nice. It felt hard and cold and empty. But wasn’t that how he had always preferred it — the stark contrast to the overwhelming hustle and bustle of Hell? Now he was longing for something softer, more cozy, something like Aziraphale’s bookshop. 

Aziraphale! Had he been sent down to Earth too? Crowley couldn’t feel his presence… He scrambled to the desk and seized the receiver, almost dropping it as it hopped from hand to hand like a bar of soap*. Having finally established control, he jammed it to his ear and dialled Aziraphale’s number. No response. No noise at all, actually. He picked it up and examined it, realising that, in order for them to work, one probably had to plug these things in. That, and he’d bought this phone sometime during the seventies and hadn’t needed to update it since. He swiped it frustratedly off the desk and it hit the far wall with a satisfying crunch.

(*Crowley had been particularly proud of this one.)

This was fine. He knew where the bookshop was. He dashed out of his apartment and down to the street below; the Bentley was there in all its former glory, glinting in the sun. He cast his eyes up to Heaven, then down to Hell, unsure of which to thank for this smallest of mercies, then hopped into the driver’s seat. 

The car did not start.

“Come on,” he muttered. “Come on, start. Let’s go, baby. Hit it! We’re off! Chop, chop!” Still nothing. Crowley had never really put words to his ignition-thoughts before, but clearly they were not helping. Humans must start the car some other way. “Keys!” He ran his hands blindly along any surface he could reach, until he came across some in the glovebox, buried under about sixteen pairs of sunglasses, and, after a quick inspection, shoved them into the keyhole. Still nothing. “Gah!” He fiddled with them desperately, and, as luck would have it, the engine roared to life. The car still did not move. He twisted the wheel. He pressed all the pedals. The car lurched forward an inch and the engine stopped puttering. “For Hell’s sake,” he growled, swinging out of the door. “Who even invented these bloody things?” Despite what he may have written in his termly report, it wasn’t him. He sprinted off in the direction of Soho.

What would have taken him around half a minute at ninety miles an hour in the Bentley took him almost twenty at a jog, and he arrived at the entrance to A. Z. Fell & Co. panting, moist, and very hot indeed. There was a tightness in his chest that was hard to ignore. He burst through the doors without pause to catch his breath, searching desperately for Aziraphale. His gaze fell upon him in a far corner of the bookshop, running his fingers along the spines. 

“Oh, hello, Crowley,” he said cheerfully, not looking up from the shelf. “You came. Excellent.” 

Crowley frowned, still panting heavily. “Wh— I… Huh? Aziraphale? Are you — do — how are you so calm? You do know what happened? Are you here? Is it really you?” He darted across the shop and held Aziraphale at arm’s length, looking him up and down before breathing a sigh of relief. “I couldn’t feel you.”

“Yes, it’s me. Yes, I remember. It’s alright. There’s no need to worry. Come on, sit down and I’ll make you a nice cup of tea. It’s really quite soothing.”

“I couldn’t feel you,” Crowley repeated.

“No,” said Aziraphale, and Crowley saw a sadness behind his smile. “No, I couldn’t feel you either. I think that’s how it must be for humans.”

Crowley gasped, appalled, as Aziraphale tried to steer him towards one of the armchairs in the back room. Crowley, however, was unmoving. His mouth opened and closed silently for a while, and then unintelligible sounds emerged intermittently as it did, and then finally the sounds formed something resembling words. “How will — how will I know where you are? Whether you’re safe? For an angel, Angel, you really are incredibly good at getting into trouble.” Some of his usual swagger returned to his voice as he spoke. 

“Ex-angel,” Aziraphale corrected. “And I’ve given it a small amount of thought, and, well, I think possibly the best way of keeping in touch would be to each get one of those, um, mobile, I believe they’re called, telephones. I did try to call you,” he added sheepishly, “but I realise that, well, they probably have to be plugged in.” 

“Yeah, obviously.” Crowley was not going to mention his own attempt. “But don’t we need money, or something? We can’t just magic up anything we want now, and as much as I’d like to take the credit for capitalism, that one’s all on humans, and they love it. And, I mean, I don’t know much about sleight of hand, but I imagine you can’t just produce money out of thin—” 

He did not have time to finish his sentence, for, in one swift motion, Aziraphale had removed his sunglasses and pressed his lips to his own. He had raised slightly onto his tiptoes to compensate for the height difference, and Crowley, taken aback, had to shuffle a half-step backwards to accommodate for the shift in weight. And then he stopped thinking, and kissed back. 

All those years he had waited for this moment. He couldn’t say he hadn’t thought about it even on the walls of Eden, when he had looked over and seen Aziraphale’s worried lips, quivering with concern, and since then there had not been a single moment when he hadn’t, somewhere in the back of his mind, had that longing to be close to him. But even those millennia, those six thousand years of yearning, could not have prepared him for the elation that he now felt coursing through his body. His hands ran up through his angel’s hair, golden in the setting sun that streamed through the windows, without him making any conscious effort to do so; the thought had simply occurred to him and his hands obeyed, just like everything had done before. And Aziraphale rocked forward even further, driven, presumably, by that same desire for closeness that had overcome Crowley, until they both toppled into a bookshelf opposite. Here was his angel, close, and warm, and soft as he’d dreamed him to be countless times, and for a few moments Crowley forgot about everything that had happened. And then he traced his hand along Aziraphale’s neck, and he was frustrated that the two of them could not get any closer; there was no way they could blur the physical boundaries that separated them, that left them individuals. Were they still celestial, or ethereal, or whatever it was they had been, there probably would have been something to be done about that. Would it have felt different? Better? Crowley had already noticed many failings of the human body, but, actually, he doubted anything could feel better than this. 

Suddenly, there was a crunch from behind Crowley, and Aziraphale pulled back. In his hand was a pair of shattered sunglasses. They stared at them for a moment, then Aziraphale looked up at Crowley’s eyes and his lips parted slightly, a small ‘o’ of surprise. 

“What?” Crowley asked. 

“Your eyes,” Aziraphale breathed. “They’re…” 

“Oh, don’t tell me they changed my eyes?” He grabbed the shades and squinted into the lens that was still intact. “They have, as well. What colour are they?” 

“Brown.” 

“That’s disappointingly normal.” 

“At least, I think they’re brown… Lean in a little closer.” 

Crowley obliged, not stopping till his face was millimetres from Aziraphale’s, who breathed “yes” and then shamelessly bridged the short gap to kiss him again. This time, Crowley resisted. 

“Hey,” he protested, brow furrowed. “Hey!” 

Concern flitted across Aziraphale’s face. “Oh, I’m sorry, was that not —”

“Six thousand years! Six thousand years, I’ve been waiting to do that. And here we are, not an hour into human life, and you’ve already kissed me twice. Twice! ‘You go too fast for me, Crowley,’ — don’t think I don’t remember, ‘cause I do. Too fast, indeed.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes flickered down to his hands, then back up to Crowley’s. “Well,” he said, “if the truth be told, I, well, when I heard you come in, I felt my heart beat. I’ve never felt a heart beat before. But it did rather put everything into perspective, you know, mortality and everything. It’s sort of like having a timer in your chest, isn’t it? Counting down the seconds. And I, uh, I realised I might have been a bit… obtuse. Given another few thousand years I might have worked it out, but then this happened, of course, and I realised that I didn’t need any more time, not least because we don’t have it anymore. I suppose I was still worried about what Heaven would think. But you were right. All along, in fact. We’re on our side.” 

Crowley, much to his own annoyance, could not stay angry at Aziraphale for any length of time. By the time Aziraphale had completed this short soliloquy, a wide grin had spread across his face. “It was worth the wait. Come on, where’s that cup of tea you promised?” 

Aziraphale was more than happy to oblige, although he switched the kettle on and promptly forgot about it, leaving Crowley to pour the tea as he chattered away. They sat facing each other in the armchairs, Crowley sprawled out across as many inches as he could cover, Aziraphale perched primly on the edge of his seat. Aziraphale sipped his tea, and the corners of his mouth turned down slightly. “It’s rather more bitter than I remember it being. I suppose it must have always been the way I imagined it to be. I’ll get used to it, I’m sure.” 

Crowley agreed silently. Before, the world had been theirs to do with as they pleased. Now, they were the world’s. It was going to take some getting used to. “But it’ll be better like this.” 

“Oh yes, of course. We’ll be free to make our own choices now. This way, we can both be forgiven.”

Silence brewed for a few moments. They sat gazing at each other, seeing each other in a whole new light. Then, finally, Aziraphale spoke. 

“You still have your tattoo.” 

Crowley’s hand flew to his face and he rubbed the area below his sideburns. Of course he couldn’t feel it anymore. It was just an ordinary tattoo now. “Do you think it will hurt my job prospects?” 

Aziraphale chuckled. “Of course not! You’ll be working here, won’t you?” 

“How are we going to earn enough from a bookshop, Angel? I thought I might get a job somewhere more lucrative, like a bank or — or…” 

“Oh, and how much experience do you have with banking?” Crowley didn’t respond. “Exactly. We can make it work here, I’ve never had a mortgage so I think the bookshop’s just ours now, and we’ll only need to earn enough for food and bills and, well, the odd lunch at the Ritz, of course. I’m very good at doing taxes, you know. Or at least I think I am…” As he trailed off, he cast a somewhat forlorn glance around the bookshelves. 

“Your books! You know, if you don’t want to sell them, I could get a job somewhere else. Nothing fancy. I could do fast food. Just enough to keep us going.” 

“No, that’s quite alright. I don’t need _things_ anymore. I already have a tie to the material plane. Might have to brush up on my customer service, though.” 

Crowley grinned. “I can help with that. I’ve already lived through one hell, how hard can it be?” 

Once more, the conversation lapsed into that satisfied silence. When the light faded, and the stars glittered over London, Crowley suggested that they go back to his flat in Mayfair. “Work at your place, live at mine? Sounds liked a fair deal to me.” 

Aziraphale wiggled his shoulders excitedly. “Oh, a deal with the devil?” 

“Ex-devil,” Crowley corrected. “And it wouldn’t be the first time.” They stepped out onto the street, which hummed with human life. “I’d offer you a lift, but I... don’t actually know how to drive.” 

“No matter,” said Aziraphale, taking the arm that Crowley offered, “it’s a nice enough night for a walk.” He glanced up at the sky above. It was almost miraculous that the stars were visible through the orange haze cast by the various lights of the city. Aziraphale smiled in awe. 

“I helped make them, you know,” Crowley said. “The stars.” 

“No, did you really?” Aziraphale got lost among the constellations, and Crowley guided him gently along the path, dodging pedestrians as they went. “Can I ask you something, dear boy?” Crowley hummed his consent. “Could we, perhaps, agree to not talk about Heaven and Hell?” 

“Yeah, I don’t see why not.” They had been banished after all. Heaven and Hell didn’t want anything to do with them, why should Aziraphale and Crowley deign to speak their names? To care about them any more than they had been cared about? “What if it’s necessary, though?” He added as an afterthought. “Like, could I abbreviate them to H?” 

“Are you asking me if you can say the letter H?” Aziraphale did not even bother to confirm or deny, he just fixed Crowley with an exasperated glare, and then cast his attention back up to space. 

* * *

Back at the flat, Crowley showed Aziraphale around; this was his first visit despite the numerous offers that had been made over the last century, because H and H’s ever-constant presence in Aziraphale’s mind had been too strong an influence to allow them that. But that was fine, since they were doing it now. 

“It doesn’t feel very lived in,” called Aziraphale from the kitchen. 

“That’s because I haven’t lived in it. Not yet anyway.” 

Aziraphale wandered in, past Crowley who was leaning nonchalantly against the desk in the office, having hastily swept the telephone debris under it, and back out into the corridor. He stroked the leaves of each plant delicately. 

“You’re going to have to learn how to tend to plants properly,” Aziraphale said. “I can help, if you like; I was a gardener.” 

Crowley snorted. “Yeah, right, as if that had anything to do with a natural affinity with plants.” 

“I take your point.” 

Having thoroughly examined each of the rooms, Aziraphale came to a halt in front of Crowley. 

“Well? What do you think?” 

“It’s very… sleek.” 

“You don’t like it?” 

“No, no. I didn’t say that. I’ll get used to it.” 

Crowley raised a disbelieving eyebrow. 

“I might… make some changes.” 

“I think I can live with that,” Crowley smiled. “Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m knackered. I’m going to hit the sack.” 

“Hmm, yes, that does sound like a rather excellent idea,” Aziraphale yawned. “Is there somewhere I can sleep?” 

Crowley gestured dramatically to the bedroom. Aziraphale turned round to him and daintily covered his mouth with his hand in mock-concern. “Oh no, there’s only one bed… whatever shall we do?” 

“Angel,” Crowley started, rolling his eyes, but Aziraphale cut him off. 

“Crowley, could I ask a favour of you?” 

“Anything.” 

“Since I’m not actually an angel, not anymore, could you find something else to call me?” 

Crowley stopped and stared for a moment. “Oh…” he breathed. “You don’t know…” 

Aziraphale looked puzzled. “Know what?” 

“Aziraphale,” he replied gravely, “it’s been an awfully long time since I’ve used ‘angel’ to refer to your status. A couple of millennia, if I were to hazard a guess.” 

Aziraphale stared back. It took a few seconds to process. “Oh,” he said finally. “Oh, well, in that case, do continue.” 

Crowley shook his head, but an adoring smile had crept back over his face. “How can you be so oblivious?” He murmured, but before Aziraphale could answer, Crowley strode forward, took his face in his palms, and kissed him like he’d wanted to do all that time. It was better than before, if such a thing were possible. In all his time on Earth, and Above, and Below, he had never felt such complete satisfaction as he did now. 

They fell, together, onto the bed. And had it not been for the fact that neither of them any longer had wings, they would have borne a striking resemblance to the statue on Crowley’s far wall*.

**Author's Note:**

> *I'm sure you know The One, but if you don't, please: https://www.instagram.com/p/BfNWiUCFBN1/?hl=en


End file.
